I cannot but remember
When the year grows old—
October—November—
How she disliked the cold!
She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
With a little sharp sigh.
And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound,
She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget—
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!
Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!
But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!
I cannot but remember
When the year grows old —
October — November —
How she disliked the cold!

Poet:Edna St. Vincent MillayPoem: When The Year Grows Old
Volume:Renascence and Other PoemsYear: Published/Written in 1917
Poem of the Day:Mar 7 2015
There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, When The Year Grows Old, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it.

Poem Info

Poet:Edna St. Vincent MillayPoem: When The Year Grows Old
Volume:Renascence and Other PoemsYear: Published/Written in 1917
Last read: 2016-12-07 21:38:19
Poem of the Day:Mar 7 2015
Viewed 6688 times.
Added Feb 21 2003.